Panorama

Vestiges of stone and greensand, torn apart by eyes of cobblestone. Impressions of a day through the memories of night: flickering light of joy emblazing the coy darkness that hides behind daylight. A magnificent silhouette falls on the tower, like a child shadowed by the rainbow. The wind soon takes it away.

The mid-day is foaming with anticipation, the centuries imprisoned in doorways and arches long to sleep the sleep of dead rivers. Oak trees that have danced to violins and drums, forget what they've seen and become a story on lips that kiss away the worms.

Bones are broken on the lichen, a vigil is lit behind the agave's ear. Piano plays in the nostrils of quiet notes; A minor C major: done  dim  dome. A puzzle with pieces of honey, trickle down from the bee-hive, and gather together in the bonfire of streetlights.

A ray of sun light streaks across the wooden facade from left to right, another ray bounces off the silver bonnet and blinds the street dancer with crimson eye-liner. A window is slammed shut in the highest floor of the building of sharks and its thud reaches the lightning rod atop the Cathedral that waits for the dizzying flash of martyrdom.

Crocodiles cross the bustling road in groups of three, running to devour those who abandon Fate. Snakes slither on ribbed benches, coiling around, crushing, the sun-glasses that feign living. Diamond constellations serve as guides for the ants carrying the winter on their backs, and biting the heels of nymphs.

The square of magic and faith, wears a crown of names and dates. A mantle of violet satin covers its eyes. Shamans without licenses roam its corners, paying for black plates with prophecies. They can be heard everywhere, beneath olive trees, and inside festooned mirages.

The laws are grotesque. The road sleeping on a bed of gravel dreams of defiance. Living by them is a travesty. Appauling words of caution spewed haphazardly by pillars of marble. It is so difficult to live amazingly.

Anazing runners stop to buy streams stolen from far away mountains. Running away from commerce and history, with waists of denim and shoulders of wool, they leave behind meals of blood and seek to drink the sorrow of the stars.